The Football Legends System-Chapter 74: Halftime at the Bernabéu
Chapter 74: Halftime at the Bernabéu
Chapter 74 – Halftime at the Bernabéu
From the sideline, Amorim shouted, "Reset! Wake up!"
The next few minutes shifted.
Real Madrid, momentarily stunned by Nathan’s pace, began to sit deeper. They’d tasted the threat.
And Manchester United... started to bite back.
Casemiro, the general in red, stormed forward after a heavy Vinícius touch.
Clack!
Clean tackle.
"Let’s go!" he barked, picking out Valverde instantly.
The Uruguayan didn’t hesitate. One touch—then a low fizz toward Bruno Fernandes between the lines.
Bruno turned, letting the ball roll across his body before dinking it wide toward Demir.
"Demir!" he yelled. "1v1!"
The young winger didn’t flinch.
He sized up Mendy and danced left—then right—
Then cut back, linking with Bruno again, who flicked it short toward Nathan, now cutting inside.
Tik. Tak.
A triangle formed.
Nathan. Demir. Bruno.
Tap-tap—slip—tap!
Tiki-taka.
Suddenly, Nathan surged into space between Militão and Carvajal.
Boom!
Bruno’s through ball came like a dagger—inch-perfect.
The crowd gasped.
He was through.
Just Nathan and Courtois.
Time slowed.
The keeper rushed out, arms wide—
Nathan touched it once—smooth—around Courtois.
The crowd screamed—
But he didn’t shoot.
Wait...
He peeled slightly left, let Courtois slide past—and then?
He looked over his shoulder.
Valverde was arriving like a red blur.
Nathan didn’t hesitate.
He nudged the ball back—perfectly weighted.
Boom!
Valverde smashed it into the net with a single stride.
GOAL.
Real Madrid 1 – 1 Manchester United
Silence—then chaos.
The away end exploded.
Valverde didn’t even celebrate.
He stopped.
Stared up at the white-shirted fans behind the goal.
Then slowly raised both hands, palms out.
"Forgive me," he murmured, almost inaudibly, his chest rising and falling with restrained emotion. "But now... I’m on the other side."
Some Madrid fans clapped, begrudgingly. Others stared in cold silence.
But Nathan—he just stood still, smiling faintly.
He’d made the pass.
Not the highlight moment. Not the solo goal.
But the right one.
–––––
Back at the halfway line, Bruno gave him a sly grin.
"That was cold," he said. "Thought you were gonna try to do it yourself."
Nathan shrugged, still catching his breath. "I wanted to... but he was better placed."
–––––
As they set up again, Amorim clapped his hands from the technical area.
"Keep the tempo! Move it faster now—they’re shaken!"
And he was right.
Madrid’s swagger had dipped.
Mbappé still looked dangerous—every touch a threat. But now Casemiro and Valverde were winning their duels. Bruno was finding space. Demir, emboldened by every pass, started driving forward with more confidence.
The balance had shifted.
–––––
The scoreboard read 1 – 1, but no one in the stadium was calm.
Not the fans, who roared with every Madrid advance.
Not the coaches, who gestured with sharp, frantic energy.
And definitely not Nathan Perry, who stood on the left flank, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling as the game continued at breakneck pace.
Since the equalizer, the match had transformed. United no longer looked like visitors in the lion’s den—they looked like hunters who’d stolen a fang.
But Madrid? Madrid never stays down for long.
–––
33rd minute.
Carvajal floated a high switch to Vinícius on the left. Dalot met him shoulder-to-shoulder.
Tch!
A clever flick around the corner—Camavinga arrived, gliding into space on the overlap.
Nathan darted back.
Camavinga didn’t look—just curled it with his right foot toward the far post—
WHACK!
The sound echoed.
Ping!
The post rattled!
"Oi!" Zirkzee shouted, turning, eyes wide. "Did that go in?!"
"No!" Onana yelled, recovering the ball.
–––
United countered fast.
Casemiro swept it left to Nathan, who let the ball roll across his body and surged down the wing. Mendy backpedaled, wary.
Nathan feinted inward. Mendy took the bait.
Demir screamed for the switch—Nathan heard it in the back of his skull.
He spun and sent a grounded cross across the edge of the box. Demir met it in stride—
One touch, burst, cut-back—
Whip! A low, snapping ball fired into the danger zone.
Zirkzee charged.
But...
"Too far!" the Dutchman hissed, stretching with every inch of muscle.
The ball rolled just beyond his studs and fizzed harmlessly across the six-yard box.
Demir clenched his fists. "Next one’s perfect," he muttered.
From the sideline, Amorim’s voice rang clear:
"Good work... keep it on the ground. No need to rush."
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t panic. Even as Vinícius prepared another run on the far side, the coach simply adjusted his jacket and nodded at Casemiro.
Nathan turned to glance at him.
He trusts us.
–––
41st minute.
Jude Bellingham came sliding in late.
Nathan had already slipped the ball past him when the studs connected.
Crack!
"Agh—!" Nathan grunted as he tumbled to the turf, rolling once before he came to a stop.
The referee blew his whistle and pointed immediately.
Free-kick.
Nathan sat up, grimacing.
Bellingham offered a hand. "Didn’t mean to catch you like that."
Nathan hesitated—then took it.
"Part of the game."
Jude smirked. "You’re a tricky one."
Nathan didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the spot where the ball now rested.
A few yards outside the box. Slight angle. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm
He stood over it.
Demir jogged over. "You want me to...?"
"I’ve got it."
Demir backed off.
The crowd swelled into a tense hum.
The wall formed—Alaba, Tchouaméni, Camavinga.
Courtois crouched low, arms out.
Nathan exhaled.
One step back. Another.
He saw the goal—not the net, but the space. The tiny sliver of opportunity between Courtois’ fingertips and the top corner.
Cold-blooded composure...
Like Henry.
He took a deep breath.
Boom!
Struck clean with the inside of his right foot.
The ball curled—spinning, dipping—
Just wide.
The net rippled, but only from air.
"Aaagh..." Nathan muttered, hands on his head.
–––––
Halftime.
The whistle blew.
Fweeeet!
The Bernabéu exhaled like a beast settling down, momentarily appeased. Fans murmured, buzzed, checked phones and stats, analyzed with folded arms and sharp voices.
Real Madrid 1 – 1 Manchester United.
The players walked off in a slow procession. Some still catching their breath, others shaking their heads or tapping hands.
Nathan wiped sweat from his brow.
His jersey clung to him. His calves ached from the sprints. The knock from Bellingham throbbed.
But inside?
He felt alive.
What a half.
Casemiro walked beside him, breathing deeply.
"Not bad, huh?" he muttered with a wry smile.
Nathan chuckled. "Just another night in Madrid."
Bruno jogged past, voice loud and cutting through the air. "We’ve got them on the back foot! Keep pressing! We finish this!"
Inside the tunnel
The dressing room door swung open.
Amorim didn’t shout.
He clapped once.
"Well done."
The players looked up. All eyes on him.
"Madrid started fast. We didn’t fold. We grew into the game. Controlled tempo. Combined well. And look—" he pointed toward Valverde, who sat on the bench sipping water.
"Even scored against his old team."
The room gave a few chuckles. Valverde raised both hands.
"Forgive me..." he said with mock solemnity. "But now I’m on the other side."
Laughter.
Amorim’s voice firmed again.
"Second half, we don’t sit back. We play. Keep the ball on the floor. Nathan, Demir—your wide play is working. Exploit the space.
"This is where matches are won. Not in the first 45, but in the next."
